


Found Assets

by hobbitdragon



Category: Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Sex, Angst, Bottom Tony Stark, Casual dehumanization, Coercive Rape, Dubious Consent Due To Identity Issues, Finger Sucking, Forced Arousal, Forced Orgasm, HTP adjacent, Hopeful Ending, Identity Issues, M/M, Oral Sex, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Pre-Iron Man 1, Rapist Bottoms, Rapist Doesn't Realize It's Rape, Rescue, Surveillance, Top Bucky Barnes, Touch-Starved, assumed consent, learned helplessness, past HYDRA Trash Party
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-25
Updated: 2018-12-25
Packaged: 2019-09-17 04:05:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16967331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hobbitdragon/pseuds/hobbitdragon
Summary: What happens if the Asset's cryo-tube was stored in a Stark facility, found by non-Hydra Stark personnel, and turned over to pre-Iron-Man Tony Stark as a curiosity? What happens if this is thesecondtime Tony Stark has defrosted a man, having continued his father's hunt for Captain America and thus found him early in the Arctic?Trash. That's what happens.





	Found Assets

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Meatball42](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meatball42/gifts).



> CONTENT WARNING: this fic contains graphic onscreen depiction of nonconsensual sex and allusions to past institutionalized sexual abuse. Read the tags carefully.
> 
> Also, I love MCU's Tony Stark as a character, and part of what I enjoy about him is that he's often a narcissistic dumpster fire even when he's really truly trying to be better. If you dislike that characterization of him, you may not like this fic.

The Soldier awoke to a warm, bright space and an excited voice.

“Vitals rising, would you look at that! From popsicle to prom date in ten minutes. And shit, you weren’t kidding about him looking like Bucky Barnes, he’s even got baby blues. If we can get our hands on any of Barnes’s DNA--maybe from the Smithsonian?--we should run a test. He might be a clone.”

The Soldier blinked, turning toward the sound. A man in his forties smiled down at him, sharply-trimmed goatee prickling around the expression. A quick scan of the rest of the room showed only four individuals, including a chubby Black woman with her hair slicked back into a bun. Her presence surprised the Soldier somehow, though he couldn't have said why. 

The man with the goatee was the only one wearing a suit, however, while the other three wore the clothes of technical officers and medical staff. Which meant that this slick-looking man was his handler. The Soldier fixed his eyes on him. 

“Ready to comply,” the Soldier told him, only to see the man’s eyebrows shoot up. A murmur of surprise came from the staff.

“Russian, huh?” the handler said in what the Soldier belatedly realized was English. The smile didn’t falter. “You got any English, comrade? I do speak some Russian, but I learned in college and you don’t wanna hear how rusty I am.”

“Ready to comply,” the Soldier repeated in the correct language this time. 

“Well good, glad you’re in a cooperative mood,” the handler told him. “We weren’t sure who we were gonna get! Jarvis could have translated for you anyway, but it helps that you and I can talk directly to each other. Can you sit up? Yeah, there you go. Jesus, look at that arm go, I’m gonna cream myself. Has anyone got complete internal scans of it yet?”

“Mister Stark, this is highly inappropriate!" one of the staff broke in. "We have no idea what kind of mental state he’s in, or even why he was frozen to begin with. If you could leave and just wait until tomorrow, maybe he--”

The Handler waved this away. “He seems fine! And I’m paying his medical bills, so he can deal with me being here.” 

The staff member continued despite this obvious dismissal. “That doesn’t negate his rights as a patient! I wouldn’t have let you be here at all if I’d known you were going to--”

The handler moved around the gurney--or bed? It _was_ a bed, with a mattress and everything--over to the Soldier’s left side.

“You mind if I--?” The handler took the Soldier’s left hand, thumbnail stroking over the joints of the Soldier’s fingers before turning it over to expose the palm. A shiver went through the soldier. Handlers didn’t touch the arm while it was active. Only the tech staff did that. What did it mean for a handler to touch his arm?

“I’m something of a specialist in engineering,” the handler went on. “How much sensation do you have?” He drew a soft fingertip across the palm, and the Soldier’s left hand twitched at the ticklish sensation. “Wow, look at that. Amazing! I bet if I kissed your hand like I was Prince Charming and you were Sleeping Beauty, you’d feel every bit of my mustache. How is that even possible?”

The Soldier knew the difference between rhetorical questions and real ones he needed to answer.

“So what’s your name?” the handler asked next, and _that_ was a direct question. But the Soldier had no idea how to respond. Was this a trick?

“Whatever you want to call me, sir,” he said after a second too long of a pause. He expected to be struck, but the handler just blinked at him.

“Do you not remember or am I just that compelling?” The handler’s head swiveled around to look at one of the staff. The medical staff person who'd been telling him off scowled. “Did any of his brain scans show any damage?” 

Her eyes flicked to the Soldier. He already knew he had brain damage, though he wasn’t sure how he knew that. “Mister Stark, if you’re going to say things like that, I’m going to insist you--” 

But the handler just nodded as if she’d answered his question. “Well that explains him not remembering. So, comrade, if you don’t remember your name then we gotta come up with something to call you. Bucky? Jeez, no, forget I said it, that’s too tasteless. What if he’s actually your dad or your genetic original or something? I’d hate being called Howard and at least he actually went through _some_ of the motions of parenting me. We can’t call you James, either, I’ve already got one of those in my life, and it’s the same problem anyway. So how about Edward? You can have one of my names, I’m not using it.”

“Edward,” the Soldier repeated, holding his handler’s gaze. “Yes, sir.”

“‘Sir,’ huh. Military boy, maybe? I mean look at your muscles, you clearly didn’t work a desk job. Call me Tony, by the way, Tony Stark.”

“Yes Tony,” the Soldier replied, obedient.

“Mister Stark,” the doctor interrupted, and the Soldier noted that at last: _Mister_ , not _Sir_ or any rank. “Please, he’s clearly in distress. His heart rate is elevated.”

“Fair enough. So, Eddie, here’s how it’s gonna go. We’re gonna let you rest for a while, and Doctor Marie here is gonna give you a once-over to make sure everything is running okay. Once you’re done with that, you can join me for dinner and we can discuss what you were even doing in the freezer, okay?”

“Yes Tony,” the Soldier replied. He wasn’t sure why he wasn’t immediately being deployed, but he wasn’t going to complain. When he looked out the window, he could see the ocean huge and blue spreading out to the horizon. The room was warm and spacious--and so far as he could see, there was no Chair. Just the usual monitors and array of medical equipment. But even that looked relatively innocuous; a set of blood-drawing needles and vials, but no stainless steel trays of scalpels or forceps or anything else. Not even any hanging IV bags. Which meant that, at least for now, he didn’t have to think about surgeries or reprogramming. Perhaps whatever mission this was would be easy.

At this the handler got up and left through one of the doors. The Soldier watched him go.

Doctor Marie’s tone was gentle and her hands warm as she looked him over. She checked his eyes and ears, throat and lungs and belly. There were a whole assortment of strange questions to answer and gestures she wanted him to make. He complied. He didn’t think he’d ever worked for this team before. He wanted to make a good impression.

Among all the other questions Doctor Marie asked were many about who he was and what he’d been doing in the tank. These were trick questions from her just as they were from a handler, so the Soldier refused to answer or simply gave what he hoped was the correct response: “Whatever you want, Doctor.” She didn’t seem to like that answer, frowning as she made notes on her computer.

She released him anyway, with directions to where his handler awaited him downstairs. Before he left, though, she moved close to him to indicate she wanted his attention. He turned toward her.

“Look, uh....Eddie,” she said, pausing before saying the diminutive of the codename given to him by Handler Tony. “Tony can be....well. He can be a real asshole at times, if I’m being honest. I’m sorry he was here when you woke up. I’m sure all this is enough of a shock already.”

The Soldier knew what it meant when a handler was an asshole. He sighed, mentally preparing himself for what he was sure was coming tonight. Given that it was before a mission rather than after it, he could at least be fairly certain it would not result in broken bones or internal bleeding.

“It’s his right,” the Soldier said.

The Doctor just snorted. “No, he just _thinks_ it’s his right because he’s rich. You don’t have to let him walk all over you--and believe me, he will try.”

The Soldier merely inclined his head at her in acknowledgement of her words. He knew better than to express doubt or anxiety about anything his handler did. Anything might be a test of his loyalty and obedience, and he would not fail.

The Soldier left the room, and as he moved through the space, it quickly became clear that this was some sort of residence. But not like a safehouse, he somehow knew. When he thought of safehouses, he imagined modest spaces, and this was not modest by any stretch of the imagination. This was also not like the bunkers or vaults the Soldier was normally kept in. This place sprawled, everything in it minimalistic and expensively crafted and thus indicative of wealth. The Soldier passed through several more rooms dominated by windows before he found the passage downward.

As he moved through the house, loud music began to throb through the walls, growing in decibels as he descended. When he reached the source of the noise, that wasn’t what the Soldier had expected either. He had anticipated a dining room or perhaps even a bedroom, if this handler wished to make use of him that way before eating. But the soldier found instead the kind of room he would have expected if he were undergoing serious surgery--minus only the antiseptic scent. Yet, this wasn’t the orderly machine rooms he was used to, either. Mechanical parts lay on every possible surface, sometimes even scattered on the ground. In the middle of it all, Tony manipulated a complex glowing display of some sort of schematic. After a moment of looking, the Soldier recognized the inner workings of his own shoulder.

“Freeze-pop!" Tony called, sighting him and gesturing him over. "C’mere, cute stuff, it’s inside you so maybe you know about it. Have a look at this. This looks like some sort of bomb to me, but it can’t be a bomb, so what is it?”

The Soldier looked at the portion of diagram to which Tony pointed. This, he understood. Tony wanted to know if the Soldier remembered his position in things despite his most recent wipe.

“That’s a bomb,” he replied. 

But at this, Tony’s eyes went wide. “Wait--are you joking? Is this a deadpan humor thing? Haha, funny, we all laugh now?”

The Soldier stared at him, waiting for clearer instruction.

“Okay you’re not joking. Wow. So there’s a bomb right next to the nerve hookup in your arm. Why is there a bomb there?”

“In case I am no longer required,” the Soldier answered, knowing it was the correct answer.

But Handler Tony did not act like this was the correct answer. He made a face, his mouth and eyes pinching up.

“Okay. Someone thought you were expendable, clearly. That seems like a waste of good beef, not to mention good tech, but okay. So how about we get that bomb out of you?” He clapped his hands, pulled the Soldier into a seat, and opened up the arm. “Tell me if it hurts, okay? I can’t tell from the wiring if you’ve got any pain receptors at all, though clearly you’ve got proprioception and touch sensitivity.”

This was a very strange handler. Handlers never did the work on the arm themselves, and they never cared if the Soldier was in pain. Often that was the desired state of affairs for a handler, even, so the Soldier interpreted this instruction as another test and determined to say nothing no matter how much this hurt. The Doctor had warned him what sort of handler Tony would be, after all.

Within a minute Tony had the detonator unwired, and five minutes later the whole device slid out of his arm. The soldier made sure not to give any indication of relief or gratitude; it was possible that Tony would take that as a sign to install a larger explosive device instead. 

“Well, now that we’ve determined you had a bomb strapped inside your actual body, I’m suddenly way more invested in knowing what these little devices are right along your stump, hooked into what appears to be a permanent injection port. Know anything about those?”

The Soldier knew what Tony was talking about. “Injectable substances. Stimulants, tranquilizers, poison, and several others whose contents I don’t know.” 

“Okay, so you're souped up on chemicals as well as tech, got it. Somebody thought you were a very valuable item and didn't want you captured or malfunctioning, huh? Well, then. What say we disconnect these for you? Starting with what’s probably this remote-activation thing right here. Probably also some sort of tracking device, now I think of it. Hmm.” 

Yes, the Soldier was a valuable item. He was given the definite article for a reason. Not _a_ soldier, _the_ Soldier. Not _an_ asset, _the_ Asset. So why was Tony disconnecting the asset retention aides? Did Tony have some means of control that went beyond programming, chemicals, and threat of death? 

The question evoked a dim memory in the Soldier. They had done....something....to him. Years ago. Some sort of special programming. No images came to mind, but he had a sense of dread that gripped into his belly and sent his heart pounding in his chest. His flesh palm grew damp.

Tony didn’t need the bombs or chemicals. Which meant Tony was to be obeyed at all costs.

Once Tony had detached the tiny metal vials of injectable substances, he spent the rest of the afternoon poking around inside the arm. Some of it hurt very badly, but the Soldier gave no sign. Tony babbled about the engineering of the shoulder socket and the injection site and the mechanical neurons. He discussed at length how interesting it was that the Soldier had conscious control over the plates of his arm given that there was no natural human equivalent. Then he began to test the sensitivity of the hand.

“What about temperature? Can you feel temperature?” 

“Yes.” 

“What’s your tolerance? Can you handle hot things if you go lefty? There’s nothing but silicone and metal in here as far as I can tell, so presumably you could handle a lot without melting. What about cold things?”

“I can handle up to several hundred degrees Celcius on my left hand, and as low as a hundred degrees below zero.”

Tony bit his lip, eyelashes fluttering in a look of clear arousal. The Soldier braced himself.

“I know we just met today, but is it too soon to take you home? Oh wait, you’re already _in_ my home. So stay with me forever. You’re an enigma wrapped in a mystery wrapped in attractive muscles.”

The Soldier managed to suppress a look of surprise. This was his handler’s residence? That meant that whoever Tony was, he had so much power he wasn’t concerned with keeping the Soldier openly where he lived. Or had Hydra already won? Surely not, wouldn’t they have used the Soldier for that?

But maybe they had. It wasn’t like he would know. That might explain why Tony was so unconcerned about escape. Maybe there was nowhere for the Soldier to go that didn’t belong to Hydra anymore. The technology in here was far more advanced than any the Soldier had seen before, so he must have been in storage for a long time.

A thought occurred to the Soldier then, and he couldn’t keep his skin from rippling into gooseflesh at the idea. Had he been _retired?_ If Hydra had won, had he been gifted to Tony as a _recreational_ object?

If the Soldier assumed that to be the case, so much immediately made sense. The lack of mission objectives. The lack of armed guards. The fact that this was a residence rather than a secure base. Tony’s removal of the physical safeguards. Tony had the clearance, obviously, for whatever top-tier method of control they had programmed into the Soldier. Hydra hadn’t bothered to give Tony the maintenance manual or the Chair alongside the cryo-tube, because what did maintenance matter now? The Soldier had no usage in the field any longer.

Tony kept on chattering, but his voice was subsumed by the ringing in the Soldier’s ears. He couldn’t listen. He couldn’t hear anything. The plates of his left arm flexed back and forth, and distantly the Soldier was aware of Tony remarking upon it. But it was all so far away, his body a distant point.

So they had finally retired the Soldier, as they’d threatened to do if he didn’t comply. For a brief moment he felt a flash of rage--he had worked so _hard!_ He had done so much. He had expected a bullet to the brain at the end of it, at least, not....this. He knew what being used for recreational purposes meant. 

But no. It wasn't happening now, so he had to be tactical about this.

He had only two options: escape to somewhere very very distant and live alone in the wilderness until they recaptured him, or ingratiate himself to Tony and hope for leniency. Not everyone in Hydra had the same tastes. If the Soldier--the Asset, now, he supposed, if he was a Soldier no longer--if the Asset made himself indispensable in other ways, perhaps Tony would at least keep him in working order.

This small hope calmed the Asset down. He breathed carefully until his body felt less like a distant puppet whose strings he held and more like something he had any connection to. Tony was still chattering about the arm.

The rest of the day the Asset spent in observation of his new owner. ‘Handler’ was clearly no longer an applicable term either. 'Handler' implied being in control of an active agent, whereas a recreational object had an owner.

That evening Tony fed the Asset ample food and only made a few passing remarks about the Asset’s necessary caloric intake. Because Tony smiled when he said it, the Asset wasn’t sure whether he should be worried and try to restrict his eating. Would he be expected to make his upkeep less expensive by staying on starvation rations? Was that what Tony had been implying?

But Tony gave no direct orders to that end, and it was pointless to try to intuit a keeper’s needs more than necessary. Mis-steps were punished, and orders were given when something was desired. But a refusal to innovate could be punished too. What was right?

When offered dessert, to be safe, the Asset declined. Tony merely shrugged.

After that, Tony invited the Asset upstairs to what he called the ‘entertainment center.’ The cold sweat that coated the Asset under his clothes at the phrase turned out to be unmerited, however; the ‘entertainment center’ was merely a very large screen in front of a very large couch. Tony handed the Asset a button-covered plastic stick and told him to ‘go wild.’ Normally that meant massive property damage, but as this was Tony’s own home, the Asset wasn’t sure what he was meant to do. Attempting to please his new owner was already going badly.

Some of his uncertainty must have been implied in the long pause between instruction and compliance, because Tony then took the plastic stick back and showed the Asset how to use it.

“Pick something for yourself to watch. I gotta make a few calls to my sugarbear about you, okay? You’re clearly no civilian, which means he might have a better idea of what to do with you. I’ll be back in a few!”

Sugarbear. So Tony had a partner he was going to invite to join in on whatever he planned to do to the Asset.

The Asset used the plastic stick to select something random from the huge array of choices. Whatever he had picked immediately began to play upon the screen, but the Asset only sat for a minute before he followed his new owner on silent feet. He would rather know what was coming.

He scanned the kitchen quickly--no sign of Tony there--before stalking downstairs to the workshop again. No music was playing, so it was easy to pick out the distant voice.

But before the Asset could go any further, a new and unfamiliar voice spoke to his left, startling him. He’d punched a hole in the wall before he got a good look at his surroundings and realized there was no one there.

“I beg your pardon sir, I didn’t mean to alarm you,” the invisible speaker went on.

The Asset’s skin crawled. Had they installed some sort of receiver into his brain? Was this thing speaking into his skull? But after a horrible second, he realized there had to be speakers in the wall rather than inside him.

Which meant that he’d just damaged his new owner’s house for no reason. On his first day. While out-of-bounds and trying to spy on his owner.

“I appreciate that you must be feeling anxious, sir, as I can see your heart-rate is elevated,” the disembodied voice went on. It had a faint British accent. Maybe it _was_ inside him after all, if it could see his heartbeat? “But sir is not to be disturbed during private phone conversations, especially with the Colonel. If you would just go upstairs again, sir will doubtless be with you again shortly.”

Whoever this man was referred to Tony only as ‘sir,’ and clearly was able to surveil the entire grounds. Which meant the Asset had been right about Tony’s clearance level and security measures.

With no better options, the Asset returned obediently to the entertainment center. He settled onto the couch. An unknown amount of time later, Tony returned. By that time, the Asset was totally numb. That was good. He wouldn’t feel whatever Tony planned to do next.

Tony circled around the couch, seating himself at the Asset’s left. “Can I see your Terminator hand for a sec?” he asked.

Blinking, the Asset offered it up. Tony curled the fingers down to look at the knuckles, then let out a low whistle.

“Shit, Eddie. You punched a hole through like three inches of concrete and all you have is dusty knuckles. Is it weird if I say that’s kinda hot?”

The Asset stared at him. Would the punishment be sexual in nature, then? Was that what he was meant to take from this?

“Well anyway, Rhodey--my best friend and the light of my military life--is on his way to have a look at you. We’re lucky he happened to be in town today. Also Jarvis told me you made his acquaintance as well, that’s good! If you need anything, just go ahead and ask him for it, okay? He’ll be able to hear you no matter where you are in the house.”

Ah. So there would be no punishment this time, because the Asset’s response was merely amusing to Tony. But there was the implicit threat even if there would be no punishment now: _My men are always watching you. Behave._

The Asset had been trained to identify and avoid security cameras, but these must be so small that they would require a bugsweeper to detect. Or perhaps they were a new technology so advanced that they weren’t visible at all. And given that they were inside of Tony’s house rather than outside, perhaps this wasn’t even a real residence. Perhaps the whole house was a ‘recreation center.’ Perhaps Tony was Hydra’s torturer. Maybe he liked to film what he did. Maybe this was all lead-up. Often the most effective torture involved letting the victim work themselves into a panic before you even touched them.

The film completed onscreen without the Asset having absorbed much of it. He thought it had been a romance. There had been a white man and a white woman who’d kissed a lot at least. In lieu of other orders, the Asset selected another film at random and set it to play. He had no idea where Tony was. Nowhere in the room. Probably downstairs where the Asset was no longer allowed. Or was he? Had he just been forbidden from the place during the phone conversation?

Another film flowed by the Asset. At some point, the surveillance chief, Jarvis, asked the Asset if he was hungry again. That was when the Asset realized his stomach had been growling for some time.

“Yes,” he replied, resigned. If he was here for recreational purposes, then Tony probably wanted him at least healthy if not in full combat form. Jarvis directed him to the kitchen, where both the pantry and refrigerator seemed stocked to accommodate several supersoldiers at once. The Asset downed enough food that his stomach stopped complaining, then returned to his place on the couch to wait.

Later that evening Tony returned, this time with a Black man in tow. Across the room this man stopped short at the sight of the Asset, and hearing this, the Asset turned and blinked at him in return.

“Jesus, you were not exaggerating about him looking like Bucky Barnes," the man said, in what he clearly thought was an undertone the Asset wouldn't hear. "Minus the part where he looks like he’s in a metal band. No wonder you called me instead of Steve. You _cannot_ tell him, Tony.”

“I know, I know, I’m not a complete asshole, all right?" They crossed the room together. "Eddie, this is Rhodey--Colonel James Rhodes. Rhodey, meat Edward.”

“Edward?” the Colonel asked, perplexed. “Didn’t you say he didn’t remember his own name?”

“I gave him one of mine!” Tony laughed, but the Colonel made a noise of disgust, rolling his eyes before turning toward the Asset and holding out his hand. The Asset tentatively shook it, holding it as softly as he could.

“Okay, well. _Edward,_ for now: it’s nice to meet you. If it’s okay by you, we can play twenty questions, see if we can figure out where you’re from. Sound good?”

A sneaking suspicion arose in the Asset that these men were not handlers but _enemies_ of Hydra. Why else would they know so little about the Asset and Hydra’s dealings with him? But that made no sense, as otherwise they wouldn’t have had access to the cryo-tube. Right? Hydra could not have _fallen,_ somehow, could they?

No, that was ridiculous.

“Yes, sir,” the Asset replied.

“Okay, well.” The Colonel seated himself on the couch. “Tony said when you first woke up, you were speaking Russian. Are you actually from Russia?” 

“I don’t know, sir,” the Asset replied promptly.

“What other languages do you speak?”

“Mandarin, Cantonese, Japanese, German, Spanish, and Portuguese,” he replied, and then stopped, surprised. Did he? He thought through the languages he knew, and certainly he did know how to speak those. “I also understand most French, though I don’t speak it well. I have not had enough practice.”

“Wow, okay, so definitely some sort of agent,” the Colonel said, looking shocked. “Where have you been deployed?”

The Asset opened his mouth to reply, but then shut it again. “I don’t know,” he admitted after a pause.

At last a faint memory arose and he realized what was really going on: they were testing to see if his latest wipe was holding up. He vaguely recalled that this had happened before. He relaxed a tiny amount. If they were testing, it meant he might be wiped again if he answered in an undesirable way. But that was fine. He could survive a wipe and he understood its purpose. 

“But you’ve been deployed enough places to need to know that many languages. Are you fluent in them?” 

“Yes.”

“What kinds of weapons are you trained in using?”

Ah, an easier question. “As many as you want. All guns commonly available on the market at the time of my last training, many sizes of knives, garrotes, grenades and other explosives, blunt weapons like nightsticks and stun batons, improvised weapons, and unarmed combat.” 

The Colonel’s face went blank. He didn’t look angry, but he certainly didn’t look pleased like the Asset had anticipated, either.

“If there are new weapons that you wish me to use, I will be able to acclimate quickly,” he added, trying to salvage whatever he’d said wrong. If the tech was so advanced now, maybe people didn’t even use guns anymore. Maybe something new had been created with which he had no experience at all.

“No, that will be sufficient,” the Colonel said, his voice unreadable as well. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Tony make a series of gestures with his hands, but when he looked at the man’s face, Tony just looked thoughtful. “Tony, lemme speak to you outside,” the Colonel said, and spun on his heel and walked out.

That didn’t indicate anything good. He must not have listed some critical skill they wanted. But he could learn--he _would_ learn!

When the Colonel came back, though, he merely smiled and shook the Asset’s hand, again saying it had been nice to meet him. Then Tony escorted the Asset to a bedroom.

“For you,” Tony said.

This, at least, the Asset thought he understood. He stood in the doorway, waiting for further instructions. But Tony just kept on walking past and away, calling out a “Good night, sleep tight!” as he went. So he didn't wish to make use of the Asset tonight?

The Asset seated himself on the bedside. Then, thinking back to the Colonel’s displeasure, he rose and ran through his standard limited-space exercise regimen. By the end of it, he was sweating and unpleasant to smell, so he took himself into the shower in case Tony returned later and wanted his services.

Finally, with nothing else to do, the Asset followed the one instruction he had: to sleep.

It wasn’t easy, but he laid himself out in the bed to make the attempt, and eventually fell into a kind of torpor. When the light changed in the room, he lifted himself out of bed and dressed himself in the armor he’d come out of the cryo-tube wearing. Just the sleeveless vest of bulletproof material along with the bulletproof pants with padded knees. He hadn’t been wearing any boots or socks when he’d awoken here, so he didn’t look for any. If Tony wanted him field-ready, he would provide the equipment for it.

**

The day that followed clarified just as little as the one before. Tony gave him no mission, but when the Asset tried to go down to the workshop again, this time he was allowed in. Tony yammered about his current project--something about information storage and transfer--and while the Asset understood none of it, he took it as a good sign that Tony was speaking to him with every evidence of pleasure. He fed the Asset throughout the day. He also touched the Asset's body in the casual way that indicated he knew he owned the Asset and was confident no request would be rebuffed.

The next day went just the same. And the next. By day the fifth day, the Asset knew he was being tortured, made to wait and wait and wait in anticipation of the coming pain.

On day six, Tony celebrated some major achievement in his project and poured them both glasses of what he indicated was very expensive alcohol. The Asset drank it. It tasted like antiseptic, but Tony reacted to it with every evidence of pleasure. Had the Asset’s glass been dosed with something? The Asset waited for signs of impairment but nothing came.

By Tony’s third cup, however, he was sitting much closer to the Asset. When his hand landed high on the Asset’s inner thigh, the Asset watched it happen with a distant kind of relief. _Finally._ Now all he had to do was get through whatever came next. He automatically spread his legs a little, indicating his compliance. It pressed his thigh more firmly into Tony’s.

Tony’s warm palm left the Asset’s leg and curled around the Asset’s face instead, turned him toward Tony.

The Asset was much bigger than Tony. Taller and broader and heavier in every way. It occurred to the Asset then that he could easily overpower this man. Crush Tony’s trachea before Tony even realized the Asset moved. Perforate Tony's skull with a metal finger, rip an arm off with a quick pull.

But the Asset wouldn’t. It wouldn’t be worth it. Fighting was never worth it, that knowledge was burned in bone-deep. He might kill this handler but with the next he would be in even worse standing.

Tony smiled, his cheeks pink as his gaze fell on the Asset’s mouth.

“So, Eddie, if I were to invite you to my room....”

The Asset forced himself not to flinch. “Whatever you want, Tony.”

“Now there's a phrase I like to hear,” Tony grinned, and then leaned forward and pressed their mouths together.

The Asset hadn’t expected this. He had been kissed before, he knew this, though he couldn’t remember when or how or who had done it. But the feeling of a mouth against his was familiar. Like so many other skills, this one came automatically as soon as it was needed, and he kissed back.

“Sir, I do not believe this is a good idea,” Jarvis broke in.

The Asset stilled, his mouth hanging open to admit Tony’s tongue while his heart rate ratcheted up even higher. But Tony just laughed, the gust of it warm against the Asset’s cheek.

“Of course it’s a good idea,” Tony replied, his facial hair catching against the Asset’s partial beard. “Don’t get your digital panties in a twist about it.”

“His heart rate is extremely elevated, and he has shown alarming levels of compliance, sir,” Jarvis said, voice neutral and almost toneless. But Tony just laughed again.

“Well yeah, he’s a military guy and I’m the Merchant of Death. I’m sure he’s a fan of my work.”

The Merchant of Death. The codename didn’t evoke any sense of familiarity in the Asset, but it was clearly a title he was expected to know. It, too, had a singular article in it. Was Tony also enhanced in some way? Not physically, that much was apparent. His muscles were the type one would expect of a man who only remembered to exercise a few times a week on the lab’s treadmill. But perhaps mentally, or in some other invisible way? 

“I still don’t suggest--” Jarvis began, but Tony interrupted.

“Can it, sugarcode. If he needs to stop me, he can throw me across the room. Can’t you, Eddie?”

“I would never do that,” the Asset replied automatically. Given the grin it earned him, this had been the right response. 

Tony climbed onto the Asset’s lap, wrapping his arms around the Asset’s neck.

“Then carry me upstairs,” he commanded, and the Asset wrapped his hands under Tony’s thighs and did just that. Tony latched onto a spot on the Asset’s neck and sucked as they moved. It didn’t really hurt, just the faintest sting, so the Asset ignored it. In a few hours the bruises would heal away too.

When they reached Tony’s bedroom--a place the Asset had of course never been until now, not having been given permission--he scanned the walls for evidence of torture tools and saw none. Just lavish furnishings like everywhere else in the house. But there were several other doors that probably led to closets. The implements could be in there. Or in any of the several chests of drawers. Or behind a secret panel.

The Asset set Tony carefully down on the edge of the bed.

After day two, Tony had tired of the Asset’s combat gear and gotten him soft house clothes to wear instead. Clothes that would give Tony easier access if he wanted it, the Asset had thought at the time, and given how Tony’s hands immediately slid under the top of the baggy cotton trousers and pushed them down, it seemed the Asset had been right about their purpose. Tony grabbed at the Asset’s backside, kneading it for several moments while grinning. Then Tony circled around to the front and pulled the pants off.

“Mm, nice and big even while you’re soft, huh? How about when you’re hard?”

Not a rhetorical question. “Quite a lot bigger,” the Asset replied, hoping this would not earn him punishment. He always lost specifics when they wiped him, but he had a sense that the size of his genitals had made some people angry. 

Tony merely grinned, though, expression seeming to indicate delight. “That’s what I like to hear. So how about you put your hands in my hair and I start the party?”

The Asset had never before been ordered to do anything like that--grabbing someone’s hair was a great way to control them--but then, this was Tony. If the Asset knew anything about the man after most of a week sitting in his workshop and listening to him talk about his designs, Tony knew how to create advanced tech of small size and wide applicability. And he had the self-assurance of a man who believed himself to be at no risk from the Asset or anyone else. Whatever form of control he had over the Asset, it must be so complete that he could allow even this. Unless the command had been a joke?

After a brief pause from the Asset’s uncertainty, Tony removed all doubt by taking the Asset’s flesh hand and wrapping it around the back of Tony’s head. The left hand Tony took and--

The Asset’s mind stalled. This was depraved even for a handler. A show of control this complete made something in the asset writhe in protest, angry and unwilling. But that part of him gave up just as quickly as he watched Tony wrap his lips around two of the Asset’s metal fingers and felt the hot wetness of Tony's mouth like the inside of a wound.

Tony truly believed he could do _anything_ to and with the Asset with no risk whatsoever. With the tiniest flick of his wrist, the Asset could smash out most of Tony’s teeth, and with a pull of his right hand he could break Tony’s neck. But what would happen to him if he did? There would be no victory, no relief. He knew that already.

And....the Asset hated to admit it, but the sensation of Tony’s tongue moving up and between his metal digits sent a thrill of sensation through his whole left side. His shoulder tingled all the way up to his neck.

So if Tony wanted a display of submission, the Asset would give him that. Better a willing display than a more forceful lesson in Order Through Pain.

A string of saliva connected Tony’s lips to the shining metal when he pulled away. A brief impulse to shove the fingers back in and choke Tony on them came and went.

“Been wanting to do that since I first saw that arm through the glass window of the cryo pod,” Tony admitted, grinning. But then he licked his lips, tilted his face forward, opened his jaw, and took the Asset’s penis directly into his mouth.

The Asset’s right hand twitched on the back of Tony’s skull. The heat and wetness of Tony’s mouth had been strange enough on the metal hand, and it was stranger still on the Asset’s genitals. Had the Asset ever done this before? Perhaps as a torture tactic with a target or prisoner? But no memories arose, nor even a sense of familiarity. Stranger still was the fact that Tony was clearly experienced with this. There was not a hint of tooth, his lips wet and slippery as he pulled the Asset’s flaccid cock in deep and sucked, massaging his tongue back and forth along the underside. It was what the Asset would have done if instructed to get Hydra personnel in a state of fuck him. It was what the Asset had expected to be on his knees doing.

For a moment, a fantasy flashed through the Asset’s mind: what if this wasn’t about proving to the Asset that Tony could do whatever he wanted? What if Tony just....liked him? Or enjoyed doing this?

Then the Asset crushed the thoughts viciously and fast. Hope was for the weak, and the only predictability in the world was how much it hurt. The Asset felt disgusted that he’d let himself think anything else even for a moment. A handler might be _proud_ of him, or enjoy what he was able to do, but at the end of the day, the Asset was nothing to them but the results they wanted.

....except that Tony had removed the bomb and the injectables. And his hands were warm on the Asset’s hips, his hair silky against the Asset’s palms, his mouth plush as it slid up and down on the Asset’s rapidly-hardening cock. Maybe someone had cared for the Asset in all those years the Asset had been made to forget, but if so, they were long gone now. And Tony was _here,_ present and real, and the moans he let out sounded like he was enjoying this. Would it be so bad for the Asset to let himself believe that he could live out his retirement here, listening to Tony talk about nothing very much and letting him do this whenever he pleased? That would be bearable, wouldn’t it? Maybe Tony did have some secret, terrible form of control over the Asset. But maybe he would be lenient in his usage of it. Maybe he would allow the Asset some freedoms?

The Asset knew he would hate himself for this moment of weakness when Tony inevitably turned cruel later on. The Asset knew this the same way he knew that he needed to breathe in order to stay alive.

But the Asset’s nerves lit up anyway, for once not with pain but with a rolling wave of pleasure that started where Tony’s mouth touched him and swelled up the Asset’s spine. The Asset observed his own reactions with surprise, noting the way the constant pain of his shoulder and back dimmed under the rhythm of Tony’s mouth. Sensation in one place sparked more sensation in another; his palms connected themselves to his neck and his cock and down his trembling thighs as he held himself still and didn’t thrust. The dig of Tony’s fingernails linked up to the flow of the Asset’s own breath over his kissed lips.

All at once it occurred to him that he would climax soon if Tony continued this, and the idea of ejaculating into a handler’s mouth filled the Asset with a dread he felt in his skin like needles. 

“Sir,” he whimpered. “Sir, I’ll--”

Tony pulled off, laughing, and the fantasy that the Asset had allowed himself to escape into vanished. Of course the Asset would not be allowed to climax like this. Why had he thought otherwise?

In one smooth motion, Tony pulled off his shirt, then unbuttoned and shimmied out of his jeans. His own cock, much smaller than the Asset’s, lay hard and dark against one hip. Tony twisted to one side of the bed, opening up the bedside drawer and pulling out a spare pillowcase, a strip of condoms, and a tube of lubricant. He spread the pillowcase out over the covers, and then lay himself out across it.

“Take your shirt off and get down here. Should I get out a glove for you, or do you think we can wash the lube out of your metal fingers tomorrow? What am I saying, I’ll figure out a way to do it. Get down here and get your fingers in me.”

Holding his shirt in one hand, the Asset paused. With any other handler, he would have assumed he’d misheard. This was not what anyone in possession of the Asset wanted from him. But then, nobody else who’d been in the possession of the Asset had allowed him into their mouth, either. So perhaps Tony did mean it?

Normally the Asset would have folded his clothes neatly, too, but Tony had tossed his own aside, and if the Asset had learned anything about Tony in the days prior, it was that he was not a patient man. The Asset threw down his own clothes near Tony’s and then moved up the bed to his side.

The press of their mouths together was even more luxuriant and disturbing now. The Asset hated it and wanted it to stop. He wanted it to never stop.

Nobody touched him like this.

Tony’s anus, when the Asset pressed slick fingers to it at Tony’s direction, also felt like a wound: wet and blood-warm and resisting his touch. The Asset’s cock twitched anyway. Disgust and desire mixed and bubbled together in him till after a while they boiled away, leaving no thoughts at all. There was just the feeling of the Asset's cock twitching against his leg and the way Tony smiled and lay back on the pillows with his knees spread. He looked happier than the Asset had ever seen any handler look because of anything he’d ever done. Maybe? He couldn’t remember. But the sight of that delighted face felt new and strange and unknown.

The Asset didn’t want it to stop.

Would a handler who looked like that punish him? Would they cut his guts open till he stopped wanting anything and hook him to a current till he forgot it again? Maybe they already had. Maybe he had done this with Tony before. The Asset’s brain couldn’t be trusted anywhere outside of battle.

Tony’s heel dug into the metal bicep but couldn’t hurt it at all. He babbled a stop-and-go stream of praise and instruction, words broken up by long moans and gasps. “So good, _fuck_ you’re so good, just a little longer strokes--ahh just like that, perfect, you’re so perfect it’s like I invented you myself, I’ve always loved the strong silent type and fuck fuck _fuck_ your fingers don’t give at all, curl up a little harder-- _God_ just like that--ohh ohh _ohh_ \--”

The Asset followed commands well. He continued following them even as Tony told him to put a condom on and slick himself up. Then Tony turned over onto his belly to lift his ass in clear invitation. The Asset watched the motion, distantly impressed and revolted at how completely Tony trusted his own command that he would offer this.

....Demand this. What Tony wanted was neither a request nor a gift, and the Asset couldn’t forget that.

It didn’t matter to the Asset’s cock whether this was on orders or voluntary, though. The slide into Tony felt delicious and decadent even sheathed in rubber and smelling like a surgical site. The way Tony moved and rippled and sounded underneath the Asset seemed to indicate he felt the same. 

“Mmm, yeah. Now c’mon big guy. Slow and hard.”

It took several more rounds of instruction to get exactly what Tony wanted in terms of rhythm and intensity, and the Asset took every correction waiting for punishment to follow after. But all that happened was that when he finally got it right, Tony subsided under him, pliant and relaxed except for the way his hands clutched at the Asset’s wrists. Tony’s sweaty palm slid on the metal. Soon even he gave up on talking and just moaned. 

Which made it much, much worse when the Asset realized that yet again, he was going to climax if he didn’t stop.

“Sir,” he begged, alarmed to hear how shaky his own voice was. “Tony, I’m--”

“Stop,” Tony commanded, and the Asset obeyed. He stilled, cock halfway in, and while his muscles weren’t tired, a tremor went through him regardless.

“Rest part of your weight on me and kiss me,” Tony commanded.

The Asset complied. The angle to reach Tony’s mouth was difficult, but the Asset managed it because of his greater height and the strength of his arms. Tony’s kisses felt even better this way, complemented by the smooth skin of his back against the Asset’s belly and the twitch of his internal muscles around the Asset’s sheathed cock. 

The Asset feared the kissing itself would make him come. Thankfully the fervor subsided after a few minutes. When Tony told him to start thrusting again, the Asset could comply without immediately betraying himself.

Several minutes later, though, Tony made him stop again when he got too close a third time. It occurred to the Asset then that Tony would likely not let the Asset come at all. The foolish, awful part of him that wanted to lose itself in false hope thought it wouldn’t mind so much if Tony didn’t let him come so long as he got to do this again. Another part of the Asset wanted to crawl out of his skin and die so that he would never have to do this again. 

Finally, though, it was Tony who fell apart underneath him. His hips went stiff and still under the Asset, his noises raised in pitch, body tightening up all over and inside. The rigid squeeze of him along the Asset’s shaft dragged a desperate whimper from between the Asset's teeth.

Then Tony came with a sharp cry, a jerk of his buttocks, and a flutter around the Asset’s straining cock. The Asset stilled again without being asked. He watched as Tony panted, shoulders heaving, until he turned his head and smiled. The corner of his grin just showed over his arm.

“Gimme--” Tony began before letting out a long sigh. “Gimme a second, and then you can come.”

The gratitude that the Asset felt in response to those words was terrible. But the way Tony tilted his ass up, making his hole easier to thrust into even though it was tighter still in the wake of his orgasm--that was wonderful. The Asset rested his forehead against Tony’s nape and fucked him, letting the sensation of it build until it wiped out everything else, leaving him with nothing but electricity and the smell of rubber.

Pain crept back into his awareness in bits and pieces. The headache he’d had all day returned to throb above his right eye. His ribs, including the ones that were now constantly misaligned since Tony hadn’t seen fit to have anyone adjust them, sent jolts of sharp pain through the Asset every time he drew a deep breath.

The way Tony curled up along the Asset’s side and praised him, though--that still felt good anyway.

** 

Tony had him again the next night, and the morning after. But by the end of the week, Tony flew out to Afganistan.

Twenty-three hours after that, Jarvis relayed a call from Colonel Rhodes, playing it over the speakers concealed throughout the house.

“Look. I still don’t trust you, whatever you are,” the Colonel said, his voice shaking. “But I’m sending a plane for you. You're obviously real good at finding and killing people on orders, and right now I need that. Tony’s been kidnapped.”

At those words, the last week sharpened into sudden focus: Tony was keeping the Soldier as a _bodyguard._ The Soldier had done bodyguarding work before, hadn’t he? He thought he had. And he had _certainly_ found and emptied enemy bases in the course of retrieving a target. That idea felt very familiar.

The trip was negligible. The Soldier spent it staring at the wall of the very nice plane.

The Colonel presented a mask to the Soldier as soon as he left the chopper. It covered the Soldier’s whole face, protected his eyes against the blinding-bright desert, and kept his hair out of the way, for which the Soldier was very grateful. Further, it meant that at least in this one way, standard procedure was finally being followed. That gave the Soldier comfort. He was meant to always be masked on ops.

The US military encampment was a collection of tents and vehicles dug into the hard earth of the scrubland. The Colonel quickly brought the Soldier to this outpost’s planning headquarters, a large tent containing a table spread with a huge map covered in marks.

Another man stood inside the spacious tent, leaning over the map. This man was white and huge-shouldered with golden-blond hair. The man wore no recognizable uniform, instead clad in a kevlar suit of dark blue with a star on his chest.

Something about his face niggled at the Soldier’s mind, but he wasn’t here to follow every stray remnant of memory. The Soldier was here to rescue his handler. Owner. Mission? Whatever Tony was.

Once the planning was done, the weapons Colonel Rhodes supplied were all familiar. That was strange, because most of the other technology this week had not been. But at least the Soldier could use the weapons.

Three days later, the Ten Rings base smoldered in a crater of melted glass, and the Soldier carried Tony (car battery and all) to safety. The other special ops agent, Steve, whom the Soldier could now tell was also enhanced, assisted a second rescued captive named Yinsen, while the Colonel piloted the chopper. Both the Colonel and Tony cried a bit when they saw each other.

It had been a very successful venture, the Soldier thought. Surely he would not be punished for this.

** 

Predictably, things went to hell the night after they reached the main military base. Tony didn’t want to be parted from either the Colonel or the Soldier. Tony’s hands kept shaking, and fine tremors ran all along his ribs and belly too. But the Colonel had been called away by his superior officers, and it was then that Tony confessed that the Colonel was in some trouble for bringing outside agents--the Soldier and Steve--into this mission.

“Technically Steve is a Captain, but that title is under some debate still, even most of a year later.” Tony clutched at the Soldier’s hand, palms and fingers sweaty from the heat--but also from upset, the Soldier thought. If he’d had any doubts about Tony’s civilian status before, he didn’t now. “He came out of ice just like you, did you know? Much less elegant than your setup though. I found him frozen in the arctic ocean--or, a team of my men did--whereas you had your fancy setup.”

The door opened, the light outside so intense that for a second all the entryway showed was a broad-shouldered figure.

“Speak of the devil--good of you to visit an immoral capitalist pig like me! I’m surprised Rhodey even managed to convince you to be in on this rescue mission, considering.”

Steve gave a brief smile, shaking his head at the jab--and then laid eyes on the Soldier. 

Which was when the Soldier realized he had his mask off. Tony didn’t like him wearing it and had said he needed to see the Soldier’s face. Both the Colonel and Tony had warned the Soldier to always keep his mask on when he was away from Tony’s bedside,  _especially_ around Steve--but nobody had warned the Soldier of the possibility that Steve might come to the bedside.  

For a second Steve looked perplexed, eyebrows drawing together over his nose as though he’d just remembered some task he needed to accomplish. Then his gaze sharpened, running up and down across the Soldier’s features, eyes widening as the seconds ticked by.

“Oh, shit,” Tony murmured.

“Bucky?” Steve whispered, the brief word delivered shaky and small.

The Soldier looked to Tony for orders before looking back to Steve. Was Steve someone the Soldier was also meant to obey, like the Colonel?

Tony hastily withdrew his hand from the Soldier’s. 

“Look, Steve, I know how he looks, but--”

Steve just kept on staring at the Soldier. Tony trailed off, seeming uncertain of how to continue. The Soldier was too well-trained to shift uncomfortably in his seat, but even so, he very much disliked that steady stare. After just a second or two of looking at Steve, the Soldier turned away to keep his eyes fixed on Tony, as was correct. He _knew_ Tony was his handler, or owner, or whatever. If Steve was another handler, Tony would say that.

“Bucky?” Steve said again, softer this time, eyes still fixed on the Soldier.

The Soldier was now avoiding that look rather than just looking at his handler. The Soldier’s head ached and he couldn’t quite breathe.

Then Steve pulled in a sharp breath, turning toward Tony instead. _“You_ did this, didn’t you. You mucked around with genetics and made some sort of--some sort of _copy_ of him, didn’t you? _Why_ would you do that? What gave you the _right_ to--”

The anger in his voice made the plates in the Soldier’s arm recalibrate, aligning into a combat position.

“Funnily enough, _no,”_ Tony spat back. With a mirthless smile he went on, “Though he _is_ a genetic match for your friend, so he probably is a clone. Jarvis just finished running the DNA test before I left the States.”

This was news to the Soldier. But he supposed he had always been related to someone, so the fact that he was a replica rather than a more normal descendant didn’t matter much. Family didn’t matter much. It couldn’t, not to him. He wasn’t the type of person who got a family.

“But I didn’t make this guy," Tony went on. "A random check of one of the Stark Industries sites turned up a whole wing of stuff that wasn’t supposed to be there--including him in a high-tech freezer.”

Steve let out a derisive snort. “You expect me to believe a cockamamie story like that? That you just _accidentally_ wound up with a clone of my dead friend after you and your teams turned me up in the Arctic? What, should I expect to run into copies of Morita and Jones next?” He gave a vicious laugh, throwing his arms wide. “Why stop there? Why not make Peggy too and just not tell her? Even if she did find out, it’s not like she’d remember for long. And that way you could collect the full set of World War Two memorabilia, right?”

“Fuck off,” Tony growled.

Standing, the Soldier moved between the bed and Steve. If the Soldier’s assigned task with Tony Stark was as combined bodyguard and recreational object, then it was his job to protect Tony, including from disrespectful interlopers like Steve. The Soldier stared into Steve’s face--there really was something familiar about him, looking at him caused the strangest sense of déja vu--and after another second of glaring at Tony, Steve took a breath and looked back at the Soldier.

But then, to the Soldier’s surprise, Steve simply crumpled. His eyes went watery, face scrunching together, and then his shoulders rose as his hand came up to cover his mouth. He turned away, and then he vanished out of the room.

“Well shit,” Tony said, with a great deal of feeling. “That could have gone a lot better. And a happy welcome back to me too.”

**

Tony was peevish and emotional the next several hours as his plane was refueled and the doctors finished stabilizing him for travel. He never outright cried, which was good, because the Soldier did not know how to respond to a handler crying. But Tony kept wiping at his eyes, and whenever there weren’t nurses or military officials in the room, he held the Soldier’s hand in a tight grip. He also snapped at the Soldier for not intuiting loose requests quickly or correctly. That was fine, because he never struck the Soldier, or shocked him, or demanded he be sent for reconditioning. But then, Tony wouldn’t while they were still out in the field, would he? Reconditioning would occur when they returned to his residence or other base of operations.

The Soldier worried that Steve would return to interfere with them leaving, but he did not. Tony’s plane departed for the States as planned.

Once they were there, though, things got strange. Tony called a press conference that the Soldier was not allowed to attend, which was nonsensical for a bodyguard. (The fact that the Soldier wasn’t allowed to fulfill his expected purpose made him wonder what his purpose really was--perhaps he _had_ been retired after all.) Then, whatever Tony had said during the press conference seemed to make both the Colonel and many other people very angry. Both the Colonel and a man named Obidiah visited Tony at his home. The Soldier was not allowed to be present for those meetings, either, but he could hear raised voices.

The Soldier’s anxiety grew. It was not relieved in the slightest by the fact that Tony wanted to suck him off every evening, not even when Tony allowed the Soldier to come in his mouth.

It wasn’t until Steve visited a week later that the Soldier was allowed to have contact with anyone other than Tony and his surveillance officer, Jarvis.

Tony offered Steve a drink. Steve waved it away.

The Soldier did not wish to see Steve, but Steve's presence at least relieved the monotony. When Steve saw the Soldier, though, his brow wrinkled up again and he drew a deep, shaking breath.

“Bucky?” he asked a third time. 

Was that a greeting? A code-word? An activation phrase meant to get a programmed response from the Soldier? If so, Hydra had clearly extinguished that reaction pattern some time ago.

“I don’t speak that language,” the Soldier said at last, trying to be polite.

A muscle tensed at the corner of Steve’s jaw. 

“It’s a real dick move to keep calling him that,” Tony said, and the Soldier agreed. “He can’t possibly be the friend you lost.”

“That doesn’t matter,” Steve said decisively. “Even if he’s just Bucky’s....relative. I still owe him something.” Squaring his shoulders, Steve faced the Soldier again, this time with calmer features. “I apologize for the way we met, and the way I’ve been acting. My name is Steve Rogers, and I knew--someone related to you. I’m glad to meet you.”

He held out one big, callused hand. The Soldier took it and let go of it again as quickly as he could.

Tony just snorted, rolling his eyes. “What do you think you’re gonna give him? He’s got a cushy life here with me for as long as he wants it. While he’s here, Jarvis can get him anything he wants, he’s got the entire world of entertainment at his fingertips, and he’s got me.”

That got a noise of disgust out of Steve. Whatever organization Steve was a part of, it couldn’t be the same one as Tony’s. Neither a superior officer nor anyone under Tony’s command would behave this way toward him.

“Has he even asked you what you want?” Steve demanded, ignoring Tony and addressing the Soldier himself. The Soldier managed to suppress any reaction. Steve clearly did not understand how this worked. Or maybe he did, and he wanted to get the Soldier in trouble with his owner. 

But Steve’s face softened when he looked at the Soldier, and when the Soldier refused to respond to Steve’s question, Steve asked another in an earnest voice.

“What _do_ you want?”

With this, at least, Soldier knew the correct answer and gave it immediately.

“I don’t have any wants.”

The look of shock on Steve’s face said how plainly he didn’t understand. The disturbed look on Tony’s face, however, was unexpected.

“That can’t be true. Think really hard,” Steve pressed. “I’m sure there must be something. Are there types of work you like more than others? Places you want to go? People you’d like to see?” 

Maybe this was another test. Maybe they were looking for cracks in his programming, checking to see if he would betray interest in whatever blood relative he apparently looked like. So the Soldier again gave what he knew to be the right answer.

“I want whatever Tony wants. He owns me.”

The way Steve’s expression hardened, though, and his narrowed eyes went to Tony, made the Soldier feel uncertain.

“He _what,”_ Steve hissed.

“Yeah, what?” Tony asked, staring at the Soldier in what looked like shock.

“You own me. You are either my current owner or handler.” 

Tony’s eyes flicked to Steve as Tony let out a high-pitched little laugh. “No, I’m not! I mean I don’t--what are you even--”

“What makes you say that he owns you or is your handler?” Steve asked, eyes still thin and angry. This was definitely a test, and even though the Soldier had answered correctly, he now felt afraid. He couldn’t contemplate what Steve was implying--that Tony was not his handler or owner. He couldn’t think it.

“He was here when I woke up,” the Soldier explained. “I am never awoken except by handlers or owners. And he has made use of both my primary and secondary functions.”

“What are those?” Steve pressed.

The Soldier hated Steve for making him say it out loud, just like the Soldier hated Tony for doing it. The Soldier stared at a point to the left of Steve’s head, unable to meet his eyes. “I am the Soldier. When the organization has need of an operative of superlative skill, they wake me. When Tony was in danger, I was deployed to handle the situation. He anticipated he might need me, so he took me out of storage in advance.”

Steve’s face didn’t move. “Not true. Tony had no idea he was at any risk. So if your primary function is as a special ops agent, what is your secondary function?”

The Soldier had tried to avoid answering that. He should have known better. He swallowed, and then gulped harder when the tightness in his throat wouldn’t go away.

“I provide sexual gratification for anyone of high enough clearance. Sir.”

Tony laughed, a wild, desperate sound. His left hand went to his chest, rubbing at the magnet still embedded there. “Oh come on, Eddie, you’re making it sound terrible! Why are you making it sound like I’m--as if I--”

“Why is he making it sound as if you’re the kind of man who’s made _billions_ off violence and blithely accepted a moniker like ‘the Merchant of Death’?” Steve spat, rounding on Tony again. “Compared to war profiteering, what’s a little bit of rape?”

“I would never!" Tony replied, but now his voice shook. "Everyone who’s ever been in my bed wanted to be there!” 

The Soldier’s skin prickled all over. He had said the wrong thing, given the wrong answer, and he would be punished. He didn’t want to find out about whatever control method Tony had that allowed him such complete assurance.

Another, much smaller part of the Soldier said: _Tony was never your handler. Tony found you and stole you like a thief with a handful of money, and you let him because you were too stupid and defective to know the difference. Your brain is rotten and you need a handler who can compensate for that._  

“Come on, Steve,” Tony said then, reaching out to lay a hand on the Soldier’s flesh arm. “Just because you can’t imagine men wanting each other doesn’t mean that gay sex is rape.”

Seeming to ignore this, Steve turned back to the Soldier. “You said you provide sexual gratification to anyone with high enough clearance,” he pressed. “Are you allowed to refuse if you don’t like someone?”

The Soldier stared at Steve. He wanted to kill this man. He had no idea what was going on anymore. Nothing had made sense since Tony had woken him.

“No,” the Soldier said at last. “Refusal is a punishable offense.”

Tony got up and walked over to the door. The Soldier watched, wide-eyed, wondering what this meant. 

“I need to call my doctor, I’m feeling faint,” Tony said, and then he was gone.

The Soldier was uncertain if he should follow Tony. Tony had denied being the Soldier’s owner or handler. But he _acted_ like he was.   
  
A location rose to the surface of the Soldier’s mind, a safe-house buried in an industrial district of Los Angeles. He knew that if he looked at a map he could pick it out. He could get there within a few hours.  

“I’m so sorry,” Steve said, his voice quiet and sincere. “What organization did you work for? I want to know who to take to task.”

“Hydra,” the Soldier answered, almost absently. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Steve stiffen, standing to attention as he drew a sharp breath through his nose. 

“How long ago was this?” 

“I don’t know,” the Soldier replied, because why not answer questions? Tony was already upset. “I don’t understand half the technology, but I knew how to use all the weapons Colonel Rhodes supplied me with in Afghanistan.”

“Okay,” Steve replied, exhaling slowly. The movement of air was clearly audible in the silence. “Okay. That’s--I’m gonna need you to explain that at some point, but maybe not today. Today has been--If it’s all right with you, I’d like to take you away from here. We can go wherever you want. Or if you don’t have a preference, I can get you a room at the hotel where I’m staying.”

Nothing felt real anymore. The Soldier had retreated from his own body. He did this sometimes--his body just stopped being attached to him. He was glad. It meant that no matter what he said now, he wouldn’t feel much of the punishment.

“If I wanted anything, I’d want to see the ocean up close,” he said, slow and careful, as he looked out the huge windows.

The endless blue line of the horizon still stretched there, big and uncaring. He had woken with that horizon and aside from going to Afghanistan, he had been staring at it ever since. He thought he could almost imagine the sound of the waves, the feel of the sun on his face, the smell of the great expanse of salt water. Maybe he’d been in the ocean before. The richness of the mental image made it seem likely.

“Okay,” Steve agreed, as if it were that easy. “It’s less than a mile down the road. I....I stopped for a while on my way here. I needed to, uh, get myself ready to see you two. So I can take you there.”

Steve took the Soldier to the beach. The Soldier remembered the smell, and the sound of the waves. He remembered the ocean, but he didn’t think it was this ocean.

He remembered blond hair in the sun. He remembered the feeling of water around his ankles as sand flowed from under the soles of his feet. He remembered a deep voice at his side. 

When Steve offered again to take him away, the Soldier went.


End file.
